


Little Flower, a poison ivy fanfic

by MetallicJester



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: POV Pamela Isley, Poison Ivy's Pheromones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 12:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29901081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MetallicJester/pseuds/MetallicJester
Summary: Pamela Isley awakes from her coma a changed woman and tries to put together the remaining fragments of her broken memories. A story describing the first moments of Poison Ivy, even before arriving in Gotham City; very long oneshot.
Relationships: Pamela Isley/Jason Woodrue
Kudos: 1





	Little Flower, a poison ivy fanfic

Bright light burned her retinas.

The tingling of consciousness brought attention to her skin which hissed in torment, the unfamiliarity of it leading her to think she was feeling the sensations of someone else's limbs. Muscles in her back and rear rejected against the surface she was lying on, propped up as not to choke on her own vomit. Pamela could not help thinking that she would have rather choked and died in her haze.

Pamela... that name sounded so unsure to her now. It had taken the effort to remember it, but now she was beginning to think it incorrect, as if she had made it up.

Her head lolled weakly over on the well-used pillow to glance to the area she assumed her hand to be. The burning intensified as she rolled her eyes to follow, before hissing and clasping them shut; it was led with a pain that both repulsed and called out to her, and so within the next moment she fluttered her eyes open once again, this time batting away the blinding light that surrounded her.

White walls; the smell of chemicals and stench in the air; her nose scrunched up in disgust at both stimuli, and yet she lay there on her back carelessly taking in far more of the environment than she would have liked. This at least allowed her to conclude that she was in a hospital.

She had been a healthy child, most likely due to her upper middle class upbringing and her ease of access to healthcare. Due to this and a general abundance of care for her wellbeing, she had never found herself in a hospital, at least not in the last twenty years of her recollection. The experience was not pleasant, especially comorbid with the disease that had seemed to plague her mind and body.

With the rising awareness of her environment she realised that there was an automated mask over her face, sending pure oxygen down her throat and into her lungs. She couldn't collect the strength to raise her arms to remove it from her face, and so she furrowed her brow.

Cheap rubber soled sneakers collided against the manmade floors noisily. A nurse entered the room through a door at ninety degrees to Pamela's bed, paying no attention to the patient lying there. She moved past the hospital bed and toward the back of the room: the woman was young, dressed in hospital-issued scrubs with blonde hair pinned up in a neat braid; her appearance was usual for someone working in her position, best described as inoffensive and overtly medical. If the woman had walked past her on the street shed have barely noticed, her features she the limited view Pamela received, were painfully plain at best, and so there was no reason for Pamela to be feeling as ill as she did. Just looking at the woman sparked chemical reactions of disgust and discomfort. Her stomach twisted, anger was the most accurate fit she could place for the seething electric current that shot through her synapses and lifted the fair hairs on her arms.

On the contrary the nurse didn't send an inch of attention back her way, and left the room on the linear path she had entered with, keeping the same pace all throughout. Pamela estimated that the staff did not expect her to have reached consciousness so soon. She used the word soon, albeit it certainly bothered her that she could not recollect just how long it had been. Just the act of trying to force herself to remember hurt, and she groaned as the discomfort in her skin dragged itself up and buried itself deep within her brain, resulting in a new pulsating rhythm that she could not aid.

Bile rose to her throat, though it was soon followed by something familiarly haunting. It beckoned to her, and as the lethargy in her aching soul prevented her from even creating the action to get up, she tilted her head backwards and hoped she would choke on the acidic waste.

It had been a Tuesday when she had died for the first time. Pamela had been paying attention to that as she had had a Wendy's – she only bought fast food on the days when she was rushed off of her feet and Tuesdays she was always busy in the lab. The work was hard as she worked on her research on botany, most specifically of the Toxicodendron genus, however her days in the lab were always her favourite. Something about the practicality of working with the plants and seeing them so bare under a microscope stuck a positive nerve in her. There was only so much textbook work that she could endure.

Three other students were performing research alongside her in that lab that day, though soon enough she was hearing the door clatter closed behind each one as they left. She never looked up to wave them off or watch them exit, she was much more intrigued by the chemicals she intricately mixed and applied to the leaves of Poison Ivy.

Pamela had always been reserved in nature. She had unfortunately tracked this back to her parent's controlling of her childhood, and their unwillingness to allow her to associate with other children in the neighbourhood. It was not even relieved when they left her in the arms of the nanny as they went off to work – she was under strict instruction to never leave the garden. This had been a curse and yet also a blessing, as it was when she had discovered her love for plants and nature and had led her to pursue the path that she was currently walking along. Home-schooling had allowed her to flourish without need for friends, though she so desperately fawned for them. Of course, she had accumulated them later in life, though at twenty six years of age, Pamela had grown to accept that most of the friendships she formed were shallow and temporary.

Love on the other hand was vastly different.

She could count the number of boyfriends she had had in her life on one hand, and that bothered her. It was not that she did not want a boyfriend, rather the opposite; it was that she doubted she had what the other sex was looking for. Naturally redheaded; mousy and kept to oneself; a genuine love for work and education, it was not what many men were looking for in a woman. The few that she did catch the attention of were ultimately disappointing and never lived up to her rather high expectations that she had formed from consuming romance in fictional media. It did not help that her mother held marriage in high regard for her, and had made a habit of calling to check up on her love life per se. Pamela had found a way around these awkward encounters by simply ignoring her calls.

Independence was of upmost importance to the female student, she had her ways and routines, and did not like for friendships or relationships to change those. She could depend on herself, and aptly so she chose to keep reserved and hard faced so only a small number of people would ever approach her. That didn't mean that she couldn't have crushes, in fact she had had a crush on her professor of advanced biomedical botany, Dr J Woodrue for almost three weeks now, ever since he had transferred to her university in Seattle. He was dark haired, green eyed like herself, much older than her but oh so handsome. Woodrue had first appeared in her lectures, but soon began to show up in the lab she performed research in to watch over the PhD students and give advice.

First the first time in an hour she glanced up at the clock: Eight pm. It was getting a little late – especially since she had been working the lab since nine that very morning – however it was still early enough that she could kid herself that she could get away with more time with the plants. Everyone had now left and she was alone, causing the lab to feel a little malicious, albeit the plants put her at ease; all those times she had overheard her parents arguing foolishly whilst she herself resided in the garden, pretending she was a fairy or protector of a mossy wonderland. Her apartment was not far from here and she would be able to order a cab right to the door so she would not be exposed to the Washington night too long.

The door swung open on the hinges and her muscles grew tense, before remembering that only the grad students like her had key cards to enter the building complex. Her dark green eyes flickered upwards from underneath her plastic goggles as her strong jaw tilted to the side, allowing her to get a full view of who was entering, albeit discreetly.

Painted pink lips grew slack as she locked eyes with the man entering. Dr Woodrue was dressed in his usual combo of a wine coloured long sleeved shirt and black work slacks, with the addiction of a crisp white lab jacket that he always brought himself and wore to the lab. Heat swirled in her stomach before moving lower with that familiar tingle, and she cursed herself as she stood up straighter and made herself look a little more reasonable. Her long ginger hair was thrust backwards in a tight ponytail, with many of the strands having fallen loose over the gestation of the day. Rubbing her gloved hands along the lengths of her black skirt did not much help to relieve the crinkles made by an ineffective iron, nor did it solve the hammering of her heart in her chest.

Pamela could feel it now, followed by the drop in her stomach. The feeling was confused between fear, lust or illness, and her brow furrowed narrow. Her organs seemed to already know the end of the story and so reacted aptly, however there was a dense fog in her mind, as if she could only see three steps ahead at all times.

At least now she was able to wriggle her toes and fingers; she had worried that she was paraplegic from the accident she had somehow repressed as it took too much effort to move her limbs, and it would explain the foreign sensations of the skin. With her eyes still closed she tried to remember her full name, even her initials, anything more about her that was deeply locked inside of her brain and seemingly unwilling to come out. An unknown wetness quite suddenly dampened her cheeks, and it took too long for her to realise that it was her own tears. She felt so… disgusting, so unlike what she usually felt. If she could even remember how she used to feel. She felt like a husk of Pamela, whatever her full name was. It was not her, she needed something new.

Noise from other wards entered her room invasively as the door crept open once again; the same nurse from before entered, the same distracted expression on her tanned face. Pamela allowed her head to roll in her direction, and she opened her mouth to ask the nurse a flurry of questions about what was going on and how she had gotten in the hospital bed. Instead of the intended inquiry, Pamela produced a raspy noise, completely incomprehensible in language from behind the oxygen mask.

It was then when she realised just how sore her throat was and grimaced. Nonetheless the bitter sound was enough to alert the staff member that she was conscious, and she turned around with a petrified screech, one that caused Pamela to cringe in distress.

Her eyes fell on the patient – a deep chocolate brown, and wide like a doe's – and her lips parted with a quiver before she raised a hand to cover her facial orifice in instinct. Several emotions flashed behind her eyes, before she settled on panic and dropped her line of sight to the floor and gave a nod.

"I'll get the -erm doctor, miss." she stammered, before dashing out of the door.

Pamela's face relaxed as she was once again left alone, and she sighed as thoughts rolled into her cerebrum.

Dr Woodrue's voice was low and husky, with a touch of something different that she did not recognise. "Pamela… you're here awfully late." he began, slowly shutting the door behind him and pressing his back against it.

She could not help but gulp at the sight of him. Never had the two of them been alone in a room such as this, and her restlessness was emanating from her fingertips like electricity. Nevertheless, she cleared her throat to give her some stability on her words, before speaking: "I just wanted to get some extra work in before I turned in, sir. I didn't think anyone would come at this hour." she replied timidly. She was restricted to being passive and shy in his presence, though it disgusted her.

He hmphed and moved from his spot on the wall, starting toward her with reason albeit not with relative speed. "You're so dedicated to your work, it's admirable." he began. "I can't think of another student that has your pizazz for botany."

A red heat gathered in her cheeks and she turned her head away from her teacher to hide the sudden blush. "It's nothing, I'd just much rather spend my spare time here on my research than back home. There's nothing wrong with that is there, professor?" she inquired softly. Her usually strong voice was sheepish and uncertain, as every word felt as if she was doing something wrong.

Soft chuckles slipped past his thin lips and he approached further, now only steps from her, resulting in her breath hitching. "Of course not, little flower, and please call me Jason." he purred gently. "You're one of a kind, in fact… I think you're the girl I've been looking for."

Her green eyes widened. "W-what do you mean?" she responded ignorantly. She could only pray that his words were made with wholesome intentions and not the dark meanings her mind conjured up in that moment. Of course, she had a crush on the man, but not in a million years did she think he would pay attention to her in that way. She had anticipated that she would eventually get a new lecturer and the thoughts of Dr Woodrue would fade away with time, no harm having been done.

He noticed the nervous expression Pamela was having trouble with hiding, and so moved to her side to observe her plant specimen. "I've had my eye on you Pamela, you have a lot of potential." he continued.

Her heart swelled in her chest: He had had his eye on her. She was a wallflower, hardly ever drawing attention to herself and certainly not being interesting enough for a teacher to pay attention specifically to her. Sure, she liked her work and she received good grades, but there were plenty of other students in her class that got just as good if not better scores. She was not ugly but rather not unattractive, plain and not one to take care of how she looked. Everything about her was just so hidden and uninteresting. The revelation was so shocking that she did not even ponder that his words were charming lies, only that he really was interested in her.

Her soft lips parted in a pout as she removed her plastic goggles, setting them to the side of the counter. "Potential? Me? You must be joking, Jason."

Woodrue's face twisted into an expression of upmost sincerity as he turned to face her once again. "I assure you I am not, dear flower. I think with a little priming I could make you into something fantastical."

She frowned. "Like a makeover?"

He chuckled. "This isn't the game of a young child, Pammy. I want to make you feel like how you deserve to feel, treat you like the rarity that you are."

The woman chewed her lip and glanced down at the space between them. Her eyes crept over to his hand which was placed on the counter by her hip, and then over to his other hand by his side; no wedding rings so the likelihood of him being a man trapped in a boring marriage was lower. That or he was sneaky about it.

His words were enchanting, and the corners of her mouth flicked upwards at the sound of them. Despite being raised in a wealthy household she had never really been showered with gifts, which was what Pamela assumed Woodrue meant, and so she was partial to the thought of it. They were both consenting adults and he most likely was not married, added to the fact that she was attracted to him, why should there be any problem with a man like him wanting to spoil her? 

She was worth it after all.

The blush in her cheeks spread to the bridge of her nose and deepened to a crimson; she raised a manicured hand to cup her face and hide the colour in embarrassment. "That does sound nice…" Her voice trailed off as she tested the waters.

His hand came to rest on her arm. "Pamela." He paused and raised his other hand to her jaw, where he tilted her face up to where her eyes were looking directly into his. "Do you trust me?"

The door to her room opened and shut noisily once again and Pamela groaned, tilting her face toward the source of the commotion. In the doorway stood a tall woman of small frame, her noir hair pulled backwards into a small afro; her olive complexion was clear and serious, with bright and intelligent eyes hidden behind delicately framed glasses. Her expression did not change as those eyes fell upon Pamela and she entered the room fully, closing the door behind her.

She was unaccompanied.

The doctor cleared her throat and looked down at the clipboard she held in her arms, white just as crisp as the colour of her doctor's coat. "So, Miss Pamela Isley, you've finally regained consciousness." she spoke, looking up from her clipboard.  
The name ripped through the patient like a hot blade and if not for the oxygen mask she would have gagged. Her eyes stared back at the doctor darkly, as the corner of her mouth flickered upwards in a snarl; her full name was of course Pamela Isley, and yet it felt so repellent as the words left the doctor's lips and entered the fatty air in the room. It was too thick, too viscous even with the provided oxygen by the mask, and Pamela's depth of breath increased tenfold, her eyes fluttering in an unexpected frenzy and her fingers twitching from underneath the bedsheets. The strained sensation carried up to her forearm, where Pamela concluded that she could move at the elbow to a slight extent.

An expression of concern flashed across the doctor's face and she started forward, checking the heart monitor beside the bed that Pamela had not spotted by that moment. In a strategic move, the doctor removed the oxygen mask from her face and placed it somewhere to the side of the bed at an angle that the patient could not strain her neck to spot. Despite her medical training she did not look sure of her decision, and lifted a hand to check her outward temperature, along with taking a glance at the heart monitor once again.

Her worry did not relent on her straight boned features. "Pamela… how are you feeling?" she asked.

Pamela hesitated in responding. She pondered in how to accurately relate her pains to the doctor: the lethargy; the discomfort in her skin; the hunger in her mind and the disgust right on the tip of her tongue. The other woman could not understand, just as Pamela could barely understand herself.

"Like shit." she answered after long last, her voice rugged and bitter. The motions of speaking pained her throat, and she was reminded of the burning in her throat she had experienced earlier. The words that left her mouth were more coherent, through with every syllable her throat felt drier and more burnt, causing her to raise her hands to grasp her throat in instinct.

"Do you trust me?"

The question was not simple in its phrasing, in fact Pamela was not sure whether she did indeed trust him. He was a teacher; a mentor; an individual with more sense and responsibility than her and so realistically she should be able to put her trust in him. Nevertheless, she was an adult and there was always that tad of cynicism in her mind that gnawed away at any decision she leaned toward. The question was what she was really trusting this man with. Her money? Her research? Her heart?

She chewed on her lip as she looked up with wide eyes at Dr Woodrue. Her heart thumped wildly in her chest as the words slipped onto the base of her tongue; she opened her mouth and clasped her hands together as she spoke:

"I do."

A low chuckle bubbled in his throat and he dipped his head to look at her through his eyelashes before his hands came up to rest on her shoulders. "Well then," he began, a proud smile on his lips. "Let me make you beautiful."

With a wide step he closed the space between himself and a radio by the window of the lab. It was used to play music whilst the students were working in silence, as well as because there was a rumour that plants responded better to more calming music such as classical. Pamela had set it to mute once the other students had let as she much preferred to work in silence so her mind could think.

His fingers were swift in selecting the unmute button, which began to softly play Debussy's Arabesque No.1, a gentle melody that she recognised quickly and resulted in a smile at the corners of her lips.

He turned back to her and returned to her side as the music quickened. His hand slipped down to grasp her own and he began to walk her around in a sort of dance, his body leading the routine as her much weaker body ended up pulled closer to his. She could not help but be charmed by the ordeal and she sighed happily, resting her head against his chest; he led her around in a circle as his humming of the tune became lower and louder.

She was at peace in that moment. Never in her life would she have thought she could achieve that sort of peace with someone else, she was only ever disappointed by the people around her and so never would she have thought she would be so willing to trust someone. Her parents were always letting her down, she would have been better ending up orphaned, as her parents were dead to her. Never present on those special occasions, always arguing, two narcissists caring more about each other than the child they had dragged into this cruel world.

There was something so strange about Jason Woodrue that she just could not place. She was so utterly charmed by him so quickly, and already in his arms she was picturing them in a cottage somewhere with beautiful children and in a happy marriage. He had an air about him that was so entirely unhuman and too good to be true, like she'd do anything he wanted of her; that was dangerous and she knew that she could not stand to be around him for too long. 

Like a dog chasing cars, she did not know what to do now that she had gotten it.

The song began to crescendo as he spun her around, before drawing her back in. He led his hand from her hip to the small of her back, pulling her suffocatingly close and leaning into her ear to speak: "Pammy…" he murmured close to her.

She looked up with bright eyes wide in wonder. "Yes, Jason?" she breathed softly.

His face was near unreadable as he pulled away and looked down at her, but he lingered there for a long moment. In the next he moved so fact and premeditated that she could not comprehend it, and suddenly enough he had his large hand with an iron grip on her jaw with enough pressure that it hurt. It was clear he was not being romantic and that the atmosphere between them had changed, and she lowered her brow.

"What are you-" she began, before the pressure on her jaw increased and Woodrue used his other hand to reached into his top pocket.

She used his uneven grip on her to push away and break loose, stumbling backwards in the process.

His face was wide eyed with large, dilated pupils; his face lit up with blank joy. "Where are you going, Pamela?" he asked in confusion, approaching her slowly with a vial of something she did not take the time to identify. "You said you trusted me."

Her lip trembled at his sudden change of tone and expression. "I'm scared, I don't like where this is going." she responded meekly.

"I'm not going to hurt you." he assured.

She looked toward the floor and clasped her hands together to stop the shaking. There was nothing she could say in reply as she was not sure herself what she was doing, but she felt so guilty pushing him away like that; the vial in his hand was making her nervous and yet she was so drawn to him biologically and it hurt to leave him. The door was open, she could run if she needed to and yet the urge to do so was growing smaller the closer he got.

Her heart rattled loud in her chest as she froze on the spot and watched him stop an inch in front of her. His hands seized her roughly and wrapped around her waist, pulling her clothes and preventing any chance she would have to break away from him due to his strength.

"You're going to be perfect, little flower."

The doctor looked back at Pamela in concern. "Would you be able to explain further?" she asked, breaking eye contact for only a moment to retrieve her pen and place it on her clipboard.

Pamela hmphed and looked up at the ceiling, swallowing to relieve some of the cotton mouth she suffered. "Throat hurts." she replied simply, the harshness in her voice still clear.

The other woman understood this and turned to the table to the side of the room, before filling up a plastic cup from the water dispenser and returning back to the side of the bed. She raised the cup up to the patient's lips and she gladly gulped it down, feeling the cold liquid coat her insides and slip down into her stomach. Nevertheless, though the cup was empty she was not satisfied, and her throat still ached in pain.

"Better?" the doctor asked.

Pamela weakly shook her head.

A hmm came from the other woman and she leaned in, opening Pamela's mouth and pointing a small flashlight into the orifice. She did so silently and took a minute before pulling away, a look of concern thicker on her face now.  
"Miss Isley, do you remember what happened to you?" she asked curiously.

Pamela frowned but shook her head again. She remembered some but not the important parts, like how she was maimed.

The doctor sighed and looked her in the eyes once again in order to seem compassionate. "You were found dumped outside the hospital half dead and with little clothing a month ago. The only reason I could identify you was because you had the ID of a Pamela Isley on your person." she explained, replacing her flashlight in the pocket of her doctor's coat. "You've been in a coma since then but your heartbeat is still very weak and you're seriously underweight, along with chemical burns to your mouth and throat as far as I can see. I will be frank – I am not sure what could have happened to you and how you are still alive. You don't seem to be stabilising."

Pamela's eyes grew wide and she turned her head away from the doctor. Whatever had happened to her had seriously done some damage to her body in the matter of a day; and her brain hurt just trying to imagine what trauma she had gone through.  
"You're going to be perfect, little flower."

With this he seized her mouth and forced it open; before she had time to react he poured the mystery liquid down her throat and closed her mouth, so she was backed into swallowing it. She did so with hesitation but when he caught the movement of her trachea he planted a kiss on her lips. The liquid burned as it slid down her throat and she gasped, attempting to claw the skin there, however she was still restrained by Woodrue.

"Pamela don't struggle, the pain will subside soon." he purred.

He had told her it would not hurt and yet here she was, writhing as red hot heat tore its way through her nervous system, singing every synapse and eating its way through her fleshy insides. She could not breathe; no air could penetrate her lungs as they filled with the biting substance and suddenly she was drowning. Woodrue was holding her so tight she felt she was as brittle as a brank and would break. Her skin was melting and hardening against his and she felt as if they were coming together to form one large structure. He was growing into her, she was growing outwards, so bountiful, so painful and yet she was so large and so small at the same time. She was growing into something much larger that just her pathetic human body, she was breaking down into mulch and being grown into something beautiful.

Tears wet her face and she realised they were her own. Her face was so cold even pressed against Dr Woodrue and she was shivering so violently now; there was so much agony accompanying every inch of her cellular structure. There was so much darkness that she could not even pick out her teacher anymore, silver spots floating in front of her eyes like the head of a needle.

She could not feel the pressure of him against her any longer either; her body was sinking through water, her ankles shackled with heavy chains that were dragging her down. At least she assumed they were chains, she could feel the metal moving and twisting, as if it were a metal hand gripping her ankles and tightening to a painful extent. She opened her mouth to suck in oxygen, only to get a mouthful of the water surrounding her. Escape was impossible, with no light around her and only the disgust as water seeped into her lungs from her open mouth. 

Her heart was growing weaker, softer, heavier. It hurt. There was nothing.

She had died, there was no doubt about it. The feeling that emanated from each pore in her body was that of death and pain, but that of course raised the question of how she was lay there currently alive. Her eyes flashed wide however she understood what she had to do, every inch of her being was telling her what to do.

She had to leave this place.

Her head tilted weakly toward the doctor and she wet her throat with saliva once again. With the strength she had left in her she spat out her most coherent language she could manage: "Could you please get me some food from the canteen? Very hungry." she breathed, giving the doctor a weak smile.

The doctor gave a nod. "Of course, Miss Isley; you'll be alright here unaccompanied?" she asked politely as if filling a quota.

Pamela nodded as competently as possible in her condition. Fortunately, the doctor was satisfied with this and gave a motion that she would not be long. As soon as the door shut behind her, Pamela's haphazard plan spun into motion, and she got to work ripping the covers off of her body.

Underneath the cotton sheets she came into contact with her skin and froze at the image of it. She was a very sickly colour, green almost, with veins protruding in a darker shade all along her arms and the rest of her exposed skin. There was also a paper like frailness to it, and even moving her arm up from the bed felt like shards of glass were serrating every joint.

There were two large needles stuck in her arms in order to access her blood and she cringed. Lifting a hand and taking in a deep breath she yanked the first needle from her arm, hissing as she did so; the second one seemed a large amount more daunting however she took a deeper breath and tore it from her other arm. Now free from the medical machines she tried to swing her legs to the side of the bed, succeeding but also her inability to steady herself in strength sent her tumbling toward the floor soon after.

She tried to fall as quietly as possible but still landed with a thud. The worry of wondering if anyone heard that spurred her on to crawl at a faster pace toward the window, the floor pushing back painfully against her skin, covered only by her hospital dress. At long last she reached the window. Using the roughly painted walls as aid she lifted herself to a standing position by the window, which was slightly ajar. The breeze despite being polluted was refreshing on her skin and she felt some of her strength regain as she stood there.

It was then when she caught herself in the reflection of a mirror across the room. She hardly recognised herself: her body fat and muscle mass were incredibly low, leading to a gaunt and malnourished frame, far too small and weak to be balancing her head on her shoulders. Despite all odds she could have sworn her naturally ginger hair was now one more adjacent to that of a phoenix orange and red, her curls now sad and drooping. Veins littered her face obscuring the skin there, and her eyes were almost glowing, more akin to toxic waste that an attractive gem.

Nevertheless, she could not stand there all day loitering and forcefully she pulled away from her reflection and climbed through the window. She was not sure what her goal was as she became aware that her room was on the fourth floor and the drop was not one she could survive; despite this she knew what she had to do as her mind was telling her that it was right, and soon she found herself perched on the outside window ledge of her hospital room.

Fear prickled in the front of her brain, but the majority told her that this was fine, she would be safe. They would catch her.

She took a breath and jumped from the ledge, feeling the wind rush through her long hair. Within the next moment secure limbs wrapped around her waist, holding her dear and lowering her softly to the ground until she had come to a complete halt. It took only one glance downwards to reveal that these "limbs" were in fact the vines of a plant, poison ivy to be exact. There moved unlike any plant she had ever seen and resembled more a snake, slithering around her as it released her. It was very peculiar however she did not panic, instead feeling the whole ordeal was quite natural.

Her bare feet walked along the grass in no particular direction as her head led her where to go. She took care to notice that in her footsteps sprouted small flowers, growing at a rapid speed and spreading through the grass until all of the greenery was bright and bountiful.

Walking straight her head told her she needed to flock to someplace secluded; she was not sure where the nearest place was, however her feet carried her under the bright sun and she gave a smile at the feeling of it on her skin. There were voices in the distance albeit she was not afraid of being caught, instead her mind was solely fixated on the area she was heading to. She turned out of the hospital grounds and into an emerging forest, the thicket of trees growing denser as she walked further and further through it. Her bare feet met the cluttered forest bed gracefully suffering no harm or pains from thorns on the ground, as if the ground itself softened itself in preparation for her touch.

The light parted through the trees and hit her skin and she audibly moaned. Looking down she could see her skin reflecting more of a light green, and she was not put off by this. A flick of her wrist allowed flowers and vines to burst forth from the ground closest to that hand, snaking upwards and bending to approach her hand as if it were a source of light and they needed it to live. This produced a chuckle from her, and she walked further before trying it with her other hand, resulting in the same extending of plant life up to her.

Her footsteps came to a stop as she found herself in an opening of the trees which allowed vast amounts of light to swirl in and land directly onto her. It was addictive and she closed her eyes, allowing a deep exhale to slip past her lips. This was the place.

It was perfect. She gradually sunk to her knees and pushed her red hair back from her shoulders and face; slowly stems of the plants around her lengthened, growing toward her and pushing against every inch of her skin. Vines wrapped around her arms and against the bloody marks where her needles had been stuck into her arms, before using the break in her skin to slip under her skin. She winced but followed it up with a smile as she realised the plant was releasing nutrients into her body, allowing her to grow stronger as the plant withered in result.

Pamela Isley would have screamed and ran over seeing the whole affair. The woman kneeling there was in comfort, allowing her body to be healed by the plants, flesh growing on her bones and filling out her gaunt figure. She could no longer be Pamela, the two woman no longer had any in common other than a birthday, though she could no longer remember when that was.

She had become something new through Dr Woodrue and hated him for it, though she could not help but be thankful for the opportunity to be something more. If only he had given her a name.

She raised a hand to her face to lift a vine close to her eyelevel. It squirmed to point its head at her and she could have sworn that it was looking at her despite having no eyes.

"What should my name be, little one?" she asked, her throat no longer dry and raspy.

It turned its head and as if it were thinking before as clear as day a thought voiced itself in her head.

Poison Ivy.

It was then that she realised that her thoughts were that of the plants and not necessarily just herself. Her head was filled of comfort from them, they were telling her that she was better without him, he was a pawn whilst she was their queen. She would take care of them; she was their mother and would protect them from anyone trying to hurt them.

She was their Poison Ivy, the poison of the sadists that wanted to hurt them.

A week later she was stood in the Seattle airport, a small suitcase in her hand.

She was dressed in a long green trench coat floral dress and boots, black sunglasses allowing her to cover her unnaturally toned skin. A red lipstick coated her full lips, and a green floppy hat was sat neatly upon her bright red hair, giving her an appearance of a well-made up woman.

The voice over spoke that the plane to Gotham City was arriving shortly at gate twelve.

Her rest in Seattle was over, however it was clear to her she would be of more use somewhere else. She had heard of Gotham City previously – it was renowned even across in Washington that it was a cesspool of crime and corruptness, and even more so for scummy businesses mistreating nature. This had brought her to the conclusion last night that it was perfect for her, and she would make a real difference there.

With her ticket in hand she headed toward gate twelve.


End file.
